27th July 2017

Creative writing – 3.4

I love him.

He loves me.

He is a secret, my escape, he tells the other man that i do not love him without me having to speak. He buries my infidelity and treachery and malaise so that my brain knows of nothing but his comfort and tranquility. He makes me numb, he makes my thoughts blur, he improves me as a women, now a better women. I think. I am flustered, hot on the inside, giggly with him. He feeds my addiction, because he is always there for me, so that when i miss him and the way he smells and the way he tastes, he is right there. I miss him every day.

I hate him.

Why does he hate me?

It’s always this way. I am empty, beyond empty. Nothingness fills my desolate cadaver. I never believe that he can leave me this way, tongue searching for his nectar, his viscosity, yet, all my neglected neurons allow me to feel is the fur that coats my teeth and the disrupted levels of endorphins that discard my body away like a toy that ran out of battery. Fuck. The air around me is never right when i wake. It is thick, a solid block. I want to reach out, crush the air into tiny pieces, stuff them down my windpipe, every. single. time. It reminds me of the time that he and I took a secret trip, a trip to the lake, irrefutably controlled by our lust, an escape. He says i lost my balance on the jetty. He didn’t help. He watched. I am black and blue, less visibly, more internally. His brilliance is unidentifiable, he makes me feel this way, which sickens me to my stomach, in literal senses, but ironically, i want him. I ache in a way that getting out of bed is harder than forgetting him, but of course, i could never forget him. Jesus Christ. I hate him. I love him.

The door knocks, i’m still lay flat like a body in a mortuary, lifeless. decaying. I know from the tempo and pattern of the knocking who it is. It is the other man. As I sit up, my vision diminishes into nothing but black spots and swirls, the same feelings that he creates and captures me with. I love the spin, not today. My stomach creates tides and swells, a storm in the ocean. I sweat bullets, they pierce cold through my skin, condensation from heavy inhalation. As i sit up i know that this is wrong, very wrong, but i rely on the fact that the other man rarely pays attention to my appearance. The other man cannot perceives my internal struggle, or my fear of him knowing, or the change in my tone as i greet him with the hidden distress and stupefaction, “You never call before you visit,”. I limp to the door, knowing damn well i shouldn’t be seen this way. It’s too late. “You don’t usually visit on Wednesdays.” I stutter, painting a pathetic and culpable smile across my face. The other man looks different. He is rigid. The other man’s face is not round and comforting and forgiving. He is fierce, sharp, his optics are stone. He knows. The eyes are the windows to the soul. Through the two windows in my face there is the pathway to the truth, the lust, the addiction. Yet i attempt to draw the curtains, and keep the other man out. He knows. I am NOT a better women. His intensity and vexation screams at me, yet he says nothing. The bags under my eyes protrude and the smell of me accentuates my lies, hidden away from anyone, from everyone. Yet, the other man knows.

Fuck. Fuck. The other man has really done it this time. I argue and lie and apologise, yet its too late for this. Im fine. Im better than fine. I am a better women. The other man doesn’t realise that He is best for me. Fuck. I need Him now. i hate Him, i love Him.

My distress ends as soon as He arrives. My haven, my sanctuary. I didn’t know it was so easy to forget his pain and find nothing but his comfort. I am devoured, consumed. As we embrace, i forget it all. My hands begin to tremble as i feel the warmth in my chest explode, rupturing and streaking through my body, i feel weak, blissfully weak. My sense of control becomes fictitious, i need more of Him.


wakes up in hospital, the other man confronts her about her problem. He had never pushed me this far, hurt me in this way.

The other man is standing over me, i think. blurred. He is laying next to me too. on the floor. My legs feel wet and sticky, my skirt is clinging to my legs, the strong odour is blasting my nostrils, imafuckingmess.









Join the conversation! 3 Comments

  1. Hi Lily!

    I know this is a work-in-progress 🙂

    Make sure you avoid the cliche, and somehow work to make it unique and original. Having the connectedness as it progresses will help give me greater clarity on this too.

  2. *As July 27th stated.

  3. Hi Lily,

    Why is ‘he’ in italics?

    Also make the relationships clearer – this is still a bit hard to decipher…

    Go well!


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